


Of Snakes and Apples

by Delancey654



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Comedy, Dark Magic, F/M, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delancey654/pseuds/Delancey654
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Final Battle, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy entered into a mutually beneficial (and almost entirely platonic) Arrangement to prevent another wizarding war. Now, eleven years later, the realization that Dumbledore miscounted the Horcruxes has them scrambling to thwart Voldemort's dastardly plot to return and end the world as they know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a transformative work that has been written for fun rather than for profit. All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter franchise, although certain traits, situations, and The Arrangement have been borrowed from Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Some lines from Good Omens are quoted directly; if you read something that strikes you as especially clever or witty, credit probably is due to Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman. 
> 
> Many thanks to mysweetrose for volunteering to beta the entire story, as well as to mel264 for her comments on the first couple chapters. Any remaining mistakes are wholly my own.

** May 3, 1998 - Morning**

It was a nice day.

The sun had come up, indifferent to the battle that had raged inside and around the castle the night before. But clouds massing to the east of the Quidditch pitch suggested that a thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.

A girl with a smoke-stained face and too-thin body shook her curly hair out of a practical plait and attempted to use the mass to shield herself from the first raindrops.

"I'm sorry," she said politely. "What is it you were saying?"

"I said, I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted anyone to die," said the serpent, gazing bleakly at the tall and now structurally unsound Astronomy Tower.

He wasn't really a serpent, or even a ferret, but the girl had gotten into the habit of thinking of him in those ways. Dehumanizing those on the other side made certain things easier.

Really, he was just a boy, perhaps a man after being forced to grow up over the last year, though he did have a silver snake with emerald eyes as his tie pin. Like the girl, he was too thin, with cheekbones that could cut, and soot showed prominently in his white-blond hair. His name was Malfoy, but he was thinking about changing it, due to the notoriety.

"Oh. Yes," said the girl, whose name was Hermione. For at least three years now, Malfoy had thought of her as an angel, albeit a dirty one, even though she really was a witch.

"You're not a killer," she continued, after an awkward silence broken only by the sound of rain. "You're a Slytherin, a Dark wizard, and a Malfoy. Given all that, I'm not sure if it's actually possible for you to do good. But you're not evil."

"You know everything, do you?" the boy scowled.

The girl shrugged. "There's Right and there's Wrong. I know that much, at least." Hanging in the air, but left unsaid, was the implication that he was incapable of telling the two apart.

"I don't want things to go Wrong like this again," he said, surprisingly adamant for someone who was derided by both sides as a cowardly mama's boy.

"Me, either," the girl agreed, bleakly, looking at the ruined castle. The rain was just beginning to make some headway against the bloodstains. "But too many on your side got away to keep that from happening. They'll find a new Dark Lord to rally around, just like they did with Grindelwald, then Voldemort, then Voldemort again," she predicted. "It might even be you."

The boy was too much of a cynic, even at the tender age of seventeen years, ten months, and twenty-eight days, to dispute that. "Next time, I'll try to do the Right thing," he vowed.

"Shake on it?" she asked, extending her hand.

He contemplated it for longer than was polite. Her hand was dirty - filthy, actually, with dirt and dried blood and Merlin knew what else ground into the skin and caked under her fingernails. The girl had fought in a pitched battle, after all, and hadn't yet washed up, and he was a fastidious person. But then the boy remembered how he had extended a hand to her four-eyed, scar-faced flaming _git_ of a best friend at age eleven, and thought about things might have been different if Potter had not rejected his offer of friendship (or at least alliance, since Malfoys had minions and allies, rather than friends). So he took her hand and shook it, gingerly, surreptitiously wiping it on his trousers afterwards.

She caught him at it, of course, but merely rolled her eyes. "You are such a prejudiced arse, Malfoy," the girl huffed, with no real rancor behind her words.

And that was the beginning of The Arrangement.

(x) (x) (x)

They sat in embarrassed silence after their handshake, watching another boy and girl in the distance making their way towards the Forbidden Forest. They made an odd couple: the boy was tall and large, but with rounded shoulders and baby fat that had not quite turned into defined muscle. The sword strapped across his back was at odds with a shy awkwardness that manifested itself even in his gait.

The girl was blonde and ethereal, with oddly vacant, protuberant eyes. She clutched a half-eaten green apple in one hand with a grip that suggested it was something precious. As she walked, she pirouetted on occasion and every so often stopped to smell an imaginary flower or pet an animal that was not there. Each time, the large, stoop-shouldered boy gently guided her back onto the path.

Eventually Malfoy said, "Isn't that Gryffindor's sword, strapped across Longbottom's back?"

"Er," said Hermione. A guilty expression flitted across her face, replaced by one of self-righteous obstinacy that Malfoy knew all too well. "What of it? It's certainly doesn't belong to your mad aunt!"

He was more impressed than he would ever admit that she had lied to his aunt, under torture, about the sword's authenticity. Still, his own role in that episode as a passive bystander was better brushed under the rug.

A look of faintly malicious superiority, one very familiar to Hermione, took up residence on Malfoy's pointy-featured face. "I never said that it did, but that doesn't mean it's Longbottom's for the taking. It's school property," he added, certain that would be a clincher for the rule-abiding girl.

Hermione looked wretched. "If you must know," she said, a trifle testily, "I told Neville to take it."

Malfoy looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, I had to," said Hermione, rubbing the scar of a slur carved into her arm distractedly. "Luna insisted on leaving straightaway. I begged her to stay, but the best I could do was to get her to agree to take Neville with her. The Floo network's not operational and she can't Apparate in her condition," she paused to give him a poisonous glare before continuing with a rush, "so they're going into the Forest to find thestrals. There are Death Eaters hiding out in there, as well as other vicious animals, so I told Neville to take the sword because he knows how to use it and it might come in handy against a giant or an acromantula or anything else that is magic-resistant. You saw what he did to that snake."

Malfoy swallowed hard and nodded vigorously. Seeing a boy he had viciously bullied for seven years behead the Dark Lord's pet had wrought quite a change in his perception of Longbottom. "You know I didn't have anything to do with Loony's, er, condition, right?"

Hermione gave him an impatient nod. "As I said before, you're not evil. Luna said that the only thing you ever did when you came to the dungeons was to bring her food. Apples, mostly."

"I gave her the one she's holding now. It's from an old apple tree in the Manor's kitchen garden," Malfoy volunteered, wanting Hermione to know about his good deed. "Does she know who . . . . ?" he trailed off delicately.

Hermione shook her head, but Malfoy had the impression she knew more than she was willing to say. "Do you know who?" she asked, turning his question back on him.

"Could be just about any Death Eater. Lovegood had a lot of visitors while she was in the dungeons that wanted see if she lived up to her name," Malfoy said, with an unpracticed sort of sympathy. "Including You-Know-Who."

"Poor Luna," Hermione said. She really was much better at this sympathizing thing than he was. She turned big, brown eyes onto him. "D'ya think I did the right thing, letting her leave? And giving Neville the sword?"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to be wrong," Malfoy said sarcastically to the Gryffindor know-it-all, the supposed brightest witch of their age.

She was too busy chewing her lower lip to notice his tone. "I hope so. I really do hope so. It's been worrying me all day."

For a while, they watched the rain and the receding figures of Neville and Luna.

"Funny thing is," said Malfoy, "I keep wondering whether the apple thing was the right thing to do, as well." Something nagged at him about those apples, some Herbology lore about Muggles and Malfoys, apples and temptation. "A Death Eater can get into real trouble, doing the right thing."

He nudged the dirty witch. "Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If we both did a bad thing while trying to do good?"

"Not really," said Hermione.

Malfoy looked at the wreckage of the castle.

"No," he said, sobering up. "I suppose not."

Slate-black curtains tumbled over Hogwarts. Thunder growled among the Scottish hills. Creatures, magical and mundane, cowered from the storm.

Far away, in the dripping Forest, something bright and fiery flickered among the trees.

It was going to be a dark and stormy night.


	2. At the Ritz

** May 3, 2009 - Evening **

"Happy anniversary, angel," Draco purred in his sexiest voice. Malfoy had blond hair, and good cheekbones, and was wearing snakeskin shoes. He consistently made _Witch Weekly's_ "Most Eligible  Bachelor" list and was rumored to be able to do really weird things with his tongue. 

He raised his champagne flute to the curly-haired witch who was seated across from him at an intimate candlelit table at the Ritz. After more than a decade of collaboration, the endearment was not entirely sarcastic.

Granger rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly, Malfoy? We're celebrating the persistence of The Arrangement, not a marriage. Isn't this is a bit of an overkill? And don't you dare think that champagne and oysters are enough to get you into my knickers!"

The Arrangement, now entering its eleventh year, was very simple, so simple that it really did not deserve the capital letters, except that the wizarding world was prone to overcapitalization. With Dumbledore and Voldemort dead, neither the Light nor the Dark side had the ability to vanquish the other. They could have and probably would have continued to fight each other in a bloody war of attrition until there were no magical folk left, but for The Arrangement that Hermione and Draco entered into on the bloody morning after the Final Battle. The Arrangement made certain that while neither side ever really won, neither ever really lost, either.

For Draco and Hermione, The Arrangement meant close and near-constant cooperation to divert the Dark side's love of violence and mayhem and rapine into more socially acceptable and generally less fatal forms, including football hooliganism and the liberal usage of Muggle escort services. At the same time, they worked together to temper the Light side's desire for justice whenever it tipped over into the realm of the self-righteous and unfairly punitive. Given the rampant corruption at the Ministry of Magic and the post-War proliferation of hot-headed Gryffindors in the Auror ranks, this happened with distressing frequency.

In addition to information-sharing, which the narrow-minded might condemn as spying and high treason if it ever came to light, The Arrangement also meant a tacit non-interference in certain activities of other side. While Hermione felt an occasional pang of guilt about this, a decade of association with the Slytherin prince was having the same effect on her as it was on Malfoy, except in the other direction. At least that was what she told herself, though her detractors - like Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge and, on bad days, her own parents - would say that Hermione always had a ruthless and pragmatic streak as wide as the Thames, long before she ever began fraternizing with the enemy.

As for their personal arrangement (with no capital letter, mind you), it was a strictly platonic one, no fraternization allowed, with the exception of one memorable night in Bangkok during the 2006 Quidditch World Cup. When pressed, Hermione referred to it as The-Night-Not-To-Be-Mentioned and backed up that stricture with a _Silencio_ whenever Draco brought it up, usually in the context seeking a repeat. On the rare occasions when he dodged her jinx, and on the much more frequent occasions when he was taking a hot, leisurely shower, he recalled it as the best three shags of his life. So far as Draco was concerned, Granger had won the gold, silver and bronze in his personal sex Olympics on The-Night-Not-To-Be-Mentioned.

"Does your side have anything nefarious planned for Harry's birthday?" Hermione queried, breaking into Draco's thoughts about how luscious she had looked, when he had her bent over the balcony of his suite at The Oriental.

"Just a protest march in Diagon Alley," he replied. "I'll let you know if that changes."

"Yes, I saw that the Death Eaters applied for a permit," Hermione nodded. "I'll see that the Ministry grants it, to let them blow off some steam, though Merlin only knows what they're protesting."

"The usual bollocks - erosion of pureblood rights and the encroachment of Muggleborns," Draco said without enthusiasm. "Anything percolating up through the MLE that I should be aware of?" he asked in turn.

"There's another raid planned on Malfoy Manor and some other Death Eater estates a fortnight from Tuesday," she advised.

"Oh, goody," Draco said sarcastically. "I'll have my father hide the valuable Dark Arts artifacts and leave Great-Aunt Walburga's hideous sterling epergne on prominent display. Perhaps this time we'll get lucky and the Aurors will confiscate it."

"I'll put a word in Harry's ear," Hermione promised.

"Thanks, angel," he said, giving her one of his rare, genuine smiles.

She rolled her eyes at him. "I hate it when you call me that! What does that make you? A demon? A fallen angel, like Milton's Lucifer?"

He smirked at her. "I was an angel, once. I didn't mean to fall. I just hung around with the wrong people."

Hermione snorted with laughter. "I shouldn't say that you fell, Malfoy, as opposed to sauntering vaguely downward."

The truth was, though, he had fallen. For her. Very, very hard. Draco opened his mouth to say something profound, or at least something that would persuade her to join him in a suite upstairs, but that wasn't what came out.

"Fuck!" Draco's breath hitched and he grabbed his left forearm.

"The Lestrange brothers?" Hermione asked with sympathy.

"One or the other of the psychotic buggers," he confirmed. "Maybe both, if I'm really unlucky."

"Why can't they just call or text you on your mobile like normal people?"

"Think on those last three words you just uttered, and there's your answer," Draco said, sarcasm intact even as he spoke through pain-gritted teeth. After the Dark Lord's demise, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange had refined the Dark Mark to allow short messages to be sent among one or more Death Eaters. Being messaged still hurt like buggery, though less than being summoned by the Dark Lord. His sadistic uncle and his younger brother had no interest in alleviating that side effect. Draco often suspected that they wrote wordy messages and eschewed abbreviation precisely because they knew each letter felt like being stabbed with a red-hot needle.

Draco removed his cufflink and rolled up the sleeve of his dress shirt to read the message that had been temporarily tattooed around his Dark Mark.

_Dearest and only nephew,_

_Rabastan and I require your presence at the graveyard in Little Hangleton at midnight. We will be waiting for you at the tombstone of Our Lord's most unworthy father._

_Your uncle,_

_Rodolphus Lestrange_

"So I guess that means a rain check for dessert?" Hermione asked, with real regret. The Ritz served a divine apricot soufflé.

Draco could only nod, mentally plotting the various Dark curses he would like to employ on Rabastan and Rodolphus for interrupting his anniversary dinner. "I'll catch up with you at lunchtime tomorrow, at our usual spot."


	3. In the Graveyard

** May 4, 2009 - Midnight **

Two wizards were lurking in the neglected graveyard in Little Hangleton, silent except for the chirping of crickets. They had been waiting there in the summer night for close to an hour now, and they were growing impatient.

"Bugger this for a lark," said Rodolphus, the older and larger of the two. "Draco should have been here _hours_ ago. Only takes a few seconds to Apparate."

"Have a fag?" offered Rabastan, the little brother in age as well as stature.

Rodolphus took a drag on the cigarette and passed it back. "I can see his headlights. Here he comes now, the flash bastard."

"What's that he's driving?" Rabastan asked.

"It's a posh car, a Bentley," spat Rodolphus. "Muggle, of all things. He likes to drive it whenever he can. Says it relaxes him."

Like most wizards, Rabastan had a very limited grasp of Muggle technology, so he was about to say something silly, but before he could embarrass himself, the Bentley - a 1926 model, painted black - braked outside the cemetery gates.

"He doesn't even wear proper robes anymore," Rodolphus sneered, taking in Draco's Armani suit. "All hail the Dark Lord!" he called.

"All hail the Dark Lord," Rabastan echoed.

"Hi," Draco said, with an insouciant little wave. "Sorry I'm late, but I had a couple of cocktails and some bubbly at the Ritz earlier and didn't want to Apparate in a tipsy state - greater risk of splinching, you know. Pity there's not a Floo for miles around, but that's what happens when your father's a Muggle, I guess."

His uncle gave him a stern look. "You should not speak so casually of Our Lord. You have been spending too much time with Muggles, supposedly corrupting them and spying. You've gone soft, if you ask me."

Draco stiffened, his hand going to his wand. "The Powers that Be seem to be satisfied," he said, with a studied casualness at odds with his coiled posture. "Times are changing. We need to change with them, or risk becoming obsolete or even extinct. Like dinosaurs."

"What's a dinosaur?" Rabastan asked.

"The Powers that Be are Lucius and Narcissa," Rodolphus said, ignoring his brother's question and the latter part of Draco's little speech. "They would be satisfied with anything you did, short of marrying a Mudblood. If Bella and I had been blessed with a son, you can be assured that we would have raised him to be a proper wizard, and not a spoilt ponce."

"Yeah, well, things happen for a reason," muttered Draco. "So what's up?"

Rodolphus extracted a silvery vial from his robe pocket and poured the contents into a portable Penseive sitting atop a Riddle headstone. "My dearly departed wife left this message for us, to be opened on the eleventh anniversary of her death. The goblins delivered it to me this evening."

"Go on, take a look," he gestured impatiently in the face of his nephew's hesitation. Draco slowly lowered his face into the basin, its rippling silvery surface a close match to his platinum hair in the moonlit cemetery.

When he emerged a few minutes later, his eyes looked dark, in stark contrast to his pale face. "What the fuck was that?" he gasped. 

"Exactly what it appears to be in Bella's memories, nephew," Rodolphus said, enjoying himself. "Your aunt performed a ritual on the Lovegood girl so that the child she carried would serve as the Dark Lord's host when he returns to us."

"But - but the Dark Lord is dead! Potter killed him!" Draco protested. 

"You know he made a Horcrux. You were there," Rodolphus reminded him. 

Draco nodded dumbly, recalling his inaugural task as a Death Eater and the desecration of Amelia Bones' corpse. Normally, he kept that memory buried deep. He had hoped the rumors were true and Potter had destroyed the damned thing, but clearly not.

"You're to find the lad and bring him here," ordered his uncle. "If not, you can take his place. Your aunt's _participation_ in the ritual allows anyone in her bloodline to do in a pinch."

"Why _me_?" Draco asked desperately.

"You are obviously highly favored," Rodolphus said maliciously. "Rabastan here would give his right arm for a chance like this."

"Someone's right arm, at least," the shorter Lestrange brother agreed.

"How soon?" Draco wanted to know.

"You heard Bella's words. Our Lord rises again on the date his greatest enemy, the only one he ever feared, came into the world," Rodolphus said.

"Harry Potter?" guessed Draco.

"Good guess," Rodolphus praised. "That gives you only until the end of July, Draco," his uncle warned.

Draco nodded, looking pallid.

"Why so worried, nevvie? This is the moment we have been working towards for more than a decade, pretending to be _reformed_. Did those Mudbloods and blood traitors really think we'd be satisfied with inciting hooligans and the occasional lap dance?" Rodolphus demanded rhetorically.

"Though the West Ham match against Millwall later this summer should be a riot," Rabastan noted judiciously.

"Yeah, a riot," Draco said. He did not look like the cocky young wizard who had sauntered from the vintage Bentley a few minutes before. Instead, he had a haunted expression, one that would have been familiar to anyone who had known him during sixth year.

"You will be a tool of the Dark Lord's glorious resurrection!" Rodolphus spoke with a televangelist's fervor.

"Tool. Yeah, that's about right," muttered Draco. "I'll be off then."

"Going so quickly, nevvie?" his uncle taunted. "Is there someplace you'd rather be?"

Draco glanced around the dank and depressing cemetery. "Oh, no. This is charming," he lied. "But you know me - always keen to serve the Dark Lord."

Rodolphus and Rabastan merely looked at him.

"So, er, see you around," he offered weakly. "Let me know when the next football match is, or when you're going to that gentlemen's club in Soho again. _Ciao_."

As the Bentley purred away into the darkness, the Lestrange brothers eyed the receding red taillights with suspicion.

"What's that mean?" Rabastan asked, ever the insular one. " _Ciao_? Sounds like Muggle slang to me."

"It's Italian," Rodolphus reassured his younger brother. "Probably picked it up from his mate Zabini. He's half-foreign, but still a pureblood."

"Well, that's all right then. But I still don't trust him," Rabastan said darkly.

"Draco?" Rodolphus clarified. "Me either. That's why I gave him the wrong date. The Dark Lord returns at the summer solstice, on Dumbledore's birthday."

Rabastan nodded his approval at the misinformation. It would be a funny old world if Death Eaters went around trusting one another.


	4. By the Duck Pond

** May 4, 2009 - Noon **

Hermione and Draco were standing by the duck pond in St. James' Park, a time-honored place for secret agents to meet with their opposite numbers. It was equally convenient to Hermione's shop, so she could pop over on her lunch break, and to Draco's flat in Mayfair, so he could maximize his lie-in time.

They were feeding the ducks. Hermione tossed the last bit of crust from her usual sandwich, turkey on wheat, to a scrawny, hungry-looking female. Predictably, a bigger mallard nipped in and stole the treat.

"Bad duck!" Hermione scolded.

"Such a bleeding heart." Draco rolled his eyes and tossed a chocolate to the thieving mallard. Hermione huffed at him for rewarding this sort of bullying, until the duck turned into a canary and began flailing desperately in the water.

"A Canary Cream? Really?" she rounded on him. "I _will_ cut you off if you keep abusing WWW products like this," she threatened.

"Sorry," Draco said, with unusual contrition. After his twin's death, George Weasley had banned all Death Eaters and their family members from his store. Draco liked semi-malicious joke products as much as the next Death Eater, so - as part of The Arrangement - Hermione kept him supplied with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes at cost, notwithstanding the embargo.

"So, what did your uncle have to say?" Hermione inquired, with ill-concealed curiosity.

"Oh, just that the end of the world is upon us," Draco said, with the air of a man whistling as he walked past a graveyard. He watched the canary-duck, restored to mallard form but with bright yellow feathers, bob angrily to the surface.

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, brown eyes wide, clearly hoping she had misunderstood.

"Oh, you know," Draco said with false nonchalance. "Armageddon, the Apocalypse, the End of Days. Rapture, you might call it, if you're an American."

He turned to her, an anguished look on his pointy yet handsome face. "The Dark Lord is coming back!" he announced. "He's going to possess Loony's brat. Or me, in a pinch."

Hermione eyed him for a moment, then shook her head. "Nonsense,"  
she said crisply. "He's gone. Harry saw to that."

Draco looked around the pond, satisfying himself that none of the Muggles were within earshot. He drew them away from the pond to sit on a bench.

"Er, I probably should have told you earlier, with The Arrangement and all," he began, sounding guilty. "The Dark Lord made a Horcrux!" he finished with an intense whisper.

"Oh, yes, I knew that," she said, as though he had just said something terribly obvious, like London was rainy during the month of May.

Speaking of which, he put up his umbrella with a snap as it began to drizzle, striving to remain calm in the face of Granger's uncharacteristic obtuseness.

"Don't you know what a Horcrux is, you daft bint? Or what it does?" Draco asked, semi-hysterical and his voice an octave higher than usual. So much for keeping calm and carrying on.

She patted his knee reassuringly. "A Horcrux encases a fragment of the creator's soul in an object, preventing the creator from dying," she answered, like the pedantic know-it-all she had been back at school.

Draco was so shocked and impressed that his angel knew all about that foul Dark magic that he nearly missed the next bit.

"And Voldemort didn't make one - he made _seven_ ," Hermione concluded. "Harry, Professor Dumbledore, Ron, Neville and I destroyed them all," she stated, modestly placing herself last.

"Are you quite sure?" Draco anxiously asked. "You might have missed one. Or miscounted, or destroyed something that wasn't a Horcrux."

"Harry destroyed the diary; Professor Dumbledore took care of the Gaunt ring; Ron stabbed Slytherin's locket; I got Helga Hufflepuff's cup during the Final Battle; the diadem of Ravenclaw was incinerated by Fiendfyre; Neville beheaded Nagini; and Voldemort killed his own soul fragment in Harry." She ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke.

"Fucking Salazar's rod!" Draco moaned. "Oh, buggering fuck! We are so fucked!"

"There's no need for profanity," Hermione reprimanded.

Draco pressed one of her fingers down, gently, despite the slightly deranged look in his eyes. "The snake wasn't a Horcrux. Animals can only be a Horcrux on a stopgap basis. The Dark Lord made Salazar's rod into a Horcrux, instead."

"But Dumbledore said . . . " Hermione protested.

"Dumbledore wasn't always right," Draco said grimly. "In fact, by our sixth year, I'd say he'd just about lost the plot."

She opened her mouth to argue and then shut it with a snap. Really, what could she say about a headmaster who let Malfoy the junior Death Eater run amuck for an entire school year, endangering other students?

"Are you sure it's a Horcrux?" she asked instead.

"I'm certain," Draco gulped. "I was there when he made it, after murdering Madame Bones."

"We are so fucked," Hermione muttered, echoing his sentiments from a minute earlier.


	5. At the Bookshop

** May 4, 2009 - Early Evening**

After the Second Wizarding War, Hermione had used the prize money from her Order of the Merlin, First Class, to open Cowardly Lion Books on Charing Cross Road, several doors down from the Leaky Cauldron.

She also had used her connections within the Ministry to obtain the necessary permits for an entrance into Diagon Alley as well as Muggle London. Her shop, with its mix of Muggle and magical books, had been quite successful as a result. Any sensible person, and even some purebloods, preferred to use a cheery bookshop as an access route - even if there _was_ Muggle literature - rather than braving the dodgy drunkards who frequented the Leaky.

Occasionally, Death Eaters or their sympathizers would come calling. They would suggest - sometimes none too politely - that she was making a grave mistake in stocking Muggle classics next to wizarding texts, and in encouraging two disparate worlds to meet over books. (Dolohov, however, was enraptured by the Russian erotica she stocked just for him, while Macnair would spend hours browsing in the animal husbandry section, hiding the Muggle books under his cloak whenever anyone came down the aisle.) Sometimes, the visiting Death Eaters would wander around her shop, shaking their heads and talking loudly about how flammable parchment was, and how the entire building was a fire trap.

Hermione would nod and smile and hit them with a silent, wandless compulsion hex, one that encouraged them to do no harm, as soon as their backs were turned. Draco might call her an angel, but she was far from being a fool. Still, the Cowardly Lion _had_ been fire-bombed. Twice. Both times, Draco had persuaded his fellow Death Eaters to carry out their arson after business hours. He also had warned her in advance, per The Arrangement, so she had been able to move the rare and valuable books out and make sure her insurance was up-to-date.

Today, Hermione had decided to close up shop early, in light of Draco's revelation by the duck pond. It was now five o'clock, and they had been drinking steadily for the last four hours. They sat opposite each other on squashy red and gold armchairs in the back room at the bookshop, where she shelved the rarer and more valuable magical tomes, with several bottles in varying stages of emptiness on the low table between them.

"The point is . . . " Draco began. "The point . . . the point is . . . ." Blearily, he tried to focus on Hermione and attempted to think of a point.

"The point I'm trying to make is _Muggles_ ," he said, brightening. "That's my point!"

"Muggles?" Hermione queried, clearly wanting him to expand on his point.

"Muggles have things," he explained, with an expansive gesture that nearly knocked the Firewhiskey off the table. " _Lots_ of things. Like fashion, not just robes. And theaters. And restaurants. Really, really good restaurants. I'd rather eat at the Ritz than the Leaky any day of the week."

Hermione nodded slowly, not quite grasping what he was getting at. Draco blamed the alcohol, since she usually was much quicker on the uptake.

"Muggles have music, too. They have Beethoven, and Chopin, and Tchaikovsky," he elaborated. "And they have Queen!"

"Freddy Mercury is not quite in the same class as those first three," Hermione noted drily, though the effect was ruined by her words being slightly slurred.

"He's a long sight better than the Weird Sisters!" Draco retorted. "And Celestina Warbeck?" he shuddered dramatically. "Did you know that the Dark Lord liked to play 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' on loop at Dark Revels?"

Hermione looked properly horrified, and Draco wagged a triumphant, if not quite steady, finger in front of her eyes. She had trouble tracking it. "Exactly!" he crowed. "Now you see my point!"

"What is your point, again?" she asked, confused.

"The point is . . . I _like_ Muggles," Draco confessed in a low voice. "I know it's a grave failure in a Death Eater, but I like them. I don't want to hunt them, or hurt them, and I don't want the Dark Lord to come back. I like things the way they are, with The Arrangement."

She pounced, knocking his chair over in her enthusiasm. "You like Muggles!"

Before Draco could protest this undignified treatment, she was kissing him. Then she shifted so that she was straddling him on the floor and it was apparent this was far more than just a kiss.

"Please, Draco, please," she begged prettily, as he undid her blouse and began kissing and suckling his way down her neck.

Maybe this could be more than a two-off, or The-Afternoon-Not-To-Be-Mentioned, he thought through a haze of lust, as she reached into his trousers and began stroking his length. Hermione's on-again, off-again relationship with the Weasel King had been off for quite some time. There was no reason, no reason at all, for them to refrain from fully enjoying the pleasures of each other's flesh in the limited time that remained to them until the Dark Lord came back and ruined everything.

" _Taserus Maximus_!" a male voice yelled.

Draco screamed like a little Hufflepuff girl as the sensation of far too many volts of Muggle electricity shocked his bare left buttock.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione scolded. "Put that wand down!"

From between cracked eyelids, curled into a fetal position on the bookshop's carpeted floor, Draco watched Hermione stand and rebutton her blouse before advancing like a Fury on Scarhead, who was looking entirely gobsmacked.

"But he was assaulting you!" the Head Auror whined.

"Is that what you call it when Ginny has her hand in your pants?" Hermione demanded, her face red and a downright scary expression in her eyes. "If anything, _I_ was assaulting _him_."

"I didn't mind," Draco said, needling Potter. "Not even a bit."

"Er, er," Potter stuttered. "I heard noises. I thought you were begging for help," he defended himself, lamely.

"No, help is not what I was begging for," Hermione informed him. "It was Draco's c-"

"Stop!" Harry practically howled, clapping his hands over his ears. "I can't believe this! You and _Malfoy_? Is the end of the world upon us?"

Hermione glanced at Draco. After a dramatic sigh and an eye roll, he gave a slight nod of permission.

"Well, actually . . . " she began.


	6. At Spinner's End

** May 19, 2009 - Evening**

As soon as Draco, Harry and Hermione had finished all of the Firewhiskey at her bookshop and then painfully sobered up, they had begun to plan ways to thwart Voldemort's return.

The most obvious way was to find and destroy Salazar's rod, the eighth Horcrux. Harry's position as Head Auror allowed them access to Gringott's. They had spent the last two weeks combing through the vaults of those Death Eaters who might have been entrusted with the Horcrux, with no success. The night before, Harry had allowed them to accompany the Aurors on their previously planned raid of various Death Eaters' manor homes, Hermione as a consultant and Draco Polyjuiced as a trainee, to search for the rod. Again, they had found nothing and they were getting frustrated.

"You'll have to Side-Along with me to my godfather's house," Draco said, offering his hand to Hermione but - quite pointedly - not to Potter.

"Draco, play nice," she admonished. "Harry doesn't know where we're going, any more than I do."

"Yeah, like I'd ever go and visit Snape's house," the Chosen One muttered. "Lucky you, having a greasy bat as a godparent."

"Better that than some half-crazed mongrel," Draco snapped back.

"Boys!" reprimanded Hermione, feeling like she was back at Hogwarts. Harry and Draco were like oil and water - or, more properly, nitroglycerin and fire.

"I don't think this is a good idea, 'Mione," Potter whined. "What if it's a trap?"

"Hermione, do we have to take this tosser with us?" Draco asked with a pout.

"It's not a trap, Harry," she said through clenched teeth, already nearing the end of her patience. "We have an Arrangement. And Draco, we _do_ need Harry. He's a capable wizard, and we may need his help to destroy the Horcrux. You know he's already helped us a great deal."

That was true. After Harry had stumbled upon them at Hermione's bookshop, she and Draco had taken him into their confidence regarding The Arrangement, the Horcrux, and Voldemort's plan to return on Harry's birthday using Luna's son or a member of the Black family. The latter had truly motivated Harry, since his godson Teddy Lupin was at risk of possession. Harry's grandmother also had been a Black, but Draco thought the Dark Lord would prefer to possess a child. Not only were children more malleable, but taking over a child would allow the Dark Lord to return to Hogwarts and recruit his next generation of Death Eaters.

"How do we know there's really another Horcrux?" Harry asked in a petulant tone. "Dumbledore never said Salazar's rod was a Horcrux."

"Did you really put that much trust in a lecherous old goat who used to twinkle at you all the time?" Draco drawled.

"Don't you dare insult his memory, Malfoy!"

"Already did, Potty."

"Enough squabbling!" Hermione yelled.

She took a deep breath and strived for a reasonable tone, to dilute the excess testosterone in the room. "Harry, we've discussed this. Dumbledore was a brilliant man, but he was not infallible. He didn't realize that Nagini was only a temporary Horcrux. When Voldemort killed Madame Bones, he transferred the Horcrux from the snake into Salazar's rod. You've seen Draco's memories and I've done the research. You _know_ that's what happened."

Unable to argue, Harry grumbled something under his breath about cowardly ferrets. "Stood around with his thumb in his arse while a good witch was murdered . . . accessory after the fact if you ask me . . . can't believe he's not in Azkaban."

"I was acquitted, Potter," Draco said stiffly. "I was underage and under duress. The Dark Lord did not tolerate disobedience in his followers."

"Enough of that!" Hermione snapped indiscriminately at the two wizards. "Let's go."

With great reluctance, Draco extended his other hand to Harry. With just as much reluctance, Harry took it. The three of them turned in an awkward pirouette and Apparated to Spinner's End.

"You really think we're going to find a Horcrux here?" Harry asked, looking around the grimy Muggle neighborhood with fully justified skepticism.

"Well, if it's not here, we can always get a moldy tent and go aimlessly camping around the countryside for a year to see if anything turns up," Draco suggested sarcastically.

"We know that Spinner's End is a long shot," Hermione said, striving for peace, "but we've already checked all of the more likely places that we have access to."

The long shot began to seem much more likely as they approached Professor Snape's old house and felt a prickle of Dark magic emanating from the bricks. Hermione ran a diagnostic charm. "This is fairly recent. Within a few weeks, I'd say."

Draco waved his wand in a complicated pattern and swore. "Buggering hell! Someone's breached the wards."

Inside, the grim little house had been thoroughly ransacked. Hermione suppressed a cry at the rare and precious books strewn on the floor, while Draco went unerringly to a concealed compartment on the shelves. "It was here, but it's gone," he said, unnecessarily.

Despite the obvious emptiness of the compartment, Harry came up behind Draco and cast the standard set of spells used by Aurors at a crime scene. "There was a Dark object here - " he began.

"You think?" Draco interrupted scathingly.

"But it was removed two to three weeks ago, by two wizards working in concert."

"Probably Rodolphus and Rabastan, and I'd stake my wand they were here before ever meeting me at the graveyard. They don't trust me, you see," Draco explained.

"I can't imagine why not," Potter muttered sourly. "What now, Hermione?" he asked the curly-haired witch, once more pretending the blond Death Eater was not there.

"Well, Plan A didn't work - not through anyone's fault," she added hastily, to avoid hurt feelings, "So we'll move on to Plan B, finding Luna's son and coming up with a way to prevent him from being possessed." Hermione tried to sound perky and optimistic, but failed miserably.

"What's the problem?" Draco asked. "It can't be that hard to find an eleven-year-old kid and, er, do whatever needs to be done."

"It _can_ be that hard," Potter said, contrary as always. "Luna's a brilliant witch and Neville's a powerful wizard. They decided to hide themselves away after the Final Battle. No one's seen them since."


	7. At Longbottom House

** June 5, 2009 - Teatime **

Draco had not planned on spending his twenty-ninth birthday having tea with his most formidable great-aunt - Great-Aunt Walburga _not_ excluded. Yet here he was, at Longbottom House with his Great-Aunt Augusta and ancient third cousin Algie, on an intelligence-gathering mission. At least he could look forward to Blaise and Theo taking him out later in Muggle London for a proper celebration, with more than enough alcohol to rinse the taste of oolong tea from his mouth.

For weeks now, he, Hermione, and even Potter (that rotter) had been searching doggedly for Luna's son. Hermione had put her impressive research skills to the test, checking directories and databases in the wizarding and Muggle worlds; Potter had abused his authority as an Auror by questioning shopkeepers and accessing classified MLE files; and Draco had snuck into St. Mungo's, Polyjuiced as a Healer on the Janus Thickey ward, in order to review the patient records of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Hermione had the most success. She discovered a Muggle marriage record for Neville and Luna, showing that they were married in a London registry office within a month of the final battle, and birth certificates for three Longbottom children: Xenophilius, born in September 1998, and two younger siblings, Augustus and Alice. However, the birth certificates did not show an address or birthplace, other than the county of Devon. Beyond that, they found very little, and what little they found led back to Augusta Longbottom. Luna and Neville had pulled off a disappearing act that Merlin himself might envy.

"Missy Granger is here," a squeaky-voiced house-elf announced, to Draco's immense relief.

She gave him a covert wink before kissing the Longbottom matriarch's wizened cheek. "Augusta, it's so lovely to see you!"

"How are you, my dear?" the old witch graciously inquired.

"Quite well," Hermione smiled brightly. "I apologize for being a few minutes late to tea, but I was at Hogwarts this afternoon for a meeting with Professor McGonagall. There are going to be a record number of Muggleborn students this year, several from the same village, and she wished to speak with me about lessening their culture shock."

Something niggled at the edge of Draco's mind, something to do with Muggles and apples, and the distinctly strange phenomenon of so many Muggleborns, of the same age, living in such close geographic proximity to one another. Then it flitted away.

"How is dear Minerva?" Augusta asked as a matter of form, even though Draco knew - courtesy of his mum - that the two old bats cordially loathed each other.

Hermione's smile gleamed brighter, if possible. Clearly, she had gotten some information from the Scottish tabby who ran Hogwarts these days. "She is quite well, and very much looking forward to your grandson Xenophilius being Sorted into Gryffindor."

"Yes, well, we can only hope," Augusta said, looking uncomfortable. "His mother _was_ a Ravenclaw. Not that there's anything wrong with that," she added, with the air of one determined to be broad-minded.

"He could be in Slytherin," Draco offered, stirring the cauldron. "With his bloodlines, I shouldn't be surprised."

His great-aunt blanched, her skin suddenly as pale as his own. "I don't know what you mean, Draco."

"Just that he's a pureblood, and that's increasingly rare these days," he said.

Augusta recovered quickly, replacing her teacup in its saucer with a defiant-sounding clink. "Xenophilius is no snake," she said stoutly. "I'll eat my hat with the vulture on top if the Sorting Hat puts him in your House. He's a good boy, and Neville and Luna have raised him well."

"I'm sure he is, and I'm sure they have," Hermione said soothingly, earning herself a sharp glance from the old harridan. Augusta hated to be coddled. "Do you have Luna's address? We've lost touch, but I should like to drop her a line and perhaps send Xenophilius one or two of my favorite books before he goes off to school."

Draco suppressed the urge to face-palm at this poor excuse for subtlety, though he supposed Granger, as a Muggleborn and a Gryffindor, had no models to learn from.

"How thoughtful," Augusta stated, seeing right through her. "Luna and Neville enjoy their privacy and have requested that I keep their address to myself, but I would be happy to forward anything along."

Draco wondered if there was a Fidelius Charm in place, or merely his great-aunt's rigid sense of duty. Either was a formidable defense, insurmountable as a practical matter in the limited time they had left before the Dark Lord returned on Potter's birthday at the end of July.

He sighed. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth. "Aunt, may Hermione and I speak with you in private? I am afraid we have not been entirely forthcoming with you about our reasons for seeking out Xenophilius."

"When are you ever forthcoming, Draco?" Great-Aunt Augusta shook her head in disappointment. "I would have hoped you would have outgrown your childish habit of telling fibs by now. I blame your father's deplorable influence."

"Now go ahead and spit it out," she ordered. "You needn't worry about Cousin Algie. He's deaf as a post."

Hermione and Draco exchanged glances.

Ever the brave Gryffindor, Hermione opted to act as their spokesperson. "We have reason to believe that the Dark Lord plans to possess Xenophilius," she said bluntly. "When Luna was a prisoner at Malfoy Manor, Voldemort performed a Dark ritual on her, one that allows him to possess her son."

"Voldemort's dead and gone," Augusta refuted. "I was there when Harry Potter defeated him. There was nothing left but dust."

"He took steps, through, er, another Dark ritual, that allowed him to cheat death," Hermione said vaguely. Horcruxes were supposed to be secret, after all.

"Do you mean a Horcrux?" the old witch asked shrewdly. "I thought Albus got you and the Potter boy to destroy them all."

"Dumbledore missed one, Aunt Augusta," Draco explained.

She snorted. "He always was a careless old fool."

"So will you give us Luna and Neville's address, so we can warn them?" Hermione asked, brown eyes hopeful. Draco thought the puppyish look was rather cute on her.

"I shan't break my promise to them, but if you would care to explain the situation in a letter, I'll send it along tonight."

"Of course," Hermione said, gracefully accepting defeat. Augusta Longbottom was not a witch to be dislodged from a position of principle. "It is rather urgent. The Dark Lord is planning to come back on Harry's birthday at the end of July."

"Yes, yes," Augusta said. "I'll make sure Neville and Luna don't shilly-shally in getting back to you."

She picked up a biscuit and pinned Hermione and Draco with a beady-eyed glare. "Speaking of Hogwarts, when will the two of you be producing little witches and wizards of your own to send off to school? You're not getting any younger, you know."

Hermione flushed scarlet. Draco choked on a mouthful of lukewarm tea. A look of triumph lit up Augusta's eyes. "Aha! So that's how it is!" she crowed. "So, tell me . . . "

Draco shrank back in his chair in anticipation of a highly personal and mortifying interrogation. He now recalled, with perfect clarity, why tea with his great-aunt was a horrible ordeal, to be dreaded only slightly less than an audience with the Dark Lord.


	8. At Longlove Farm

** June 6, 2009 **

When Phil Longbottom was five years old, his dad Neville told him he was a wizard. That was after Phil made his bicycle levitate off the ground.

Neville explained that he was a wizard, too, and Phil's mum, Luna, was a witch. He said that when Phil was eleven, he would go away to a school called Hogwarts, to learn spells and how to fully control his magic. Until then, his dad gave him some tips on keeping his magic hidden from his friends and their neighbors, because they lived in a Muggle village. Since then, Phil _tried_ to be a normal boy. He really did. But it was hard, seeing as odd things always seemed to happen around him.

One time, when the village bully Greasy Johnson made up a rhyme about Loony Longbottom being locked up in a lunatic asylum, Phil had done _something_ that had the bigger boy screaming in pain on the ground - _without ever laying a finger on him_. Now, everyone knew that Phil's mum was distinctly dotty and believed in creatures that did not exist, but no one dared to make fun of her after that.

Another time, Greasy (who was a slow learner), told Phil he was a bastard, because he looked nothing like his dad. That time, a snake nipped at Greasy's ankles and drove him up a tree. The bully did have a point, though. Phil looked nothing like his dad. He had Luna's nose and chin, but otherwise he was dark-haired and lean. The contrast was more apparent since Gus and Alice had been born. They were both light-haired and round-eyed like Luna, with Neville's plump cheeks and button nose.

When Phil told his parents what Greasy had said, and asked if it was true, his mum had turned white as a ghost and run from the room, sobbing about nargles. Neville stayed. He sat Phil down and explained. He explained there had been a war in the wizarding world, and Phil's biological dad had died. "But you're my son in every way that matters," he insisted.

As it turned out, Phil did not have to hide magic from his three best friends - Brian Mather, whose parents liked to thump him and the Bible with equal fervor; Pippa Prewett, who had ginger hair and went by Pepper; and the bespectacled Wensleydale, who only ever went by his surname, since Winston was too embarrassing to own up to. Even though they all had Muggle parents, Brian and Wensleydale were wizards and Pepper was a witch. The three of them, with Phil as the ringleader, had been running amuck in the Devon village of Stoke Tadfield, doing increasingly less accidental magic, from the time they started at the local primary school.

Phil was the oldest, having been born on the autumnal equinox, so he had been the first of his little gang to get his Hogwarts acceptance letter. Wensleydale had been next, in January, with Pepper following a month after. In addition to letters, both had gotten a visit from the diminutive deputy headmaster to explain to their Muggle parents "what the ruddy hell this nonsense is all about," to use the words of Pepper's accountant father.

As of February, after visiting the Wensleydale family and the Prewetts, Professor Flitwick had been rather surprised that there were two Muggleborn students in the same village. However, as it turned out, Pepper's father had a second cousin who was a witch living in another part of Devon, so she wasn't exactly a Muggleborn. The deputy headmaster took that explanation back to Hogwarts, where it was accepted at face value - which turned out to be roughly equivalent to leprechaun gold. Professor Flitwick had since made three return visits to Stoke Tadfield for the purposes of touting the merits of a magical education to three different sets of bemused Muggle parents.

Today was Brian's birthday and Professor Flitwick was visiting Stoke Tadfield yet again. Phil, Pepper and Wensleydale were holding an anxious vigil in the orchard at Longlove Farm, under their favorite apple tree. They were concerned that the fundamentalist Mathers would prove to be a hard sell on the benefits of Hogwarts versus the local comprehensive.

Most of the orchard was planted with cider apples, which Phil's dad tended with a green thumb (and judicious use of dragon dung as fertilizer). Neville was a successful farmer, well-respected throughout the district for his organic methods. Smack dab in the middle of the orchard was a different type of apple tree, one with crisp, green apples that perfectly combined sweetness and tartness, making its fruit close to irresistible. This tree, which Luna called the Tree of Knowledge, was the children's favorite. Unlike the cider apple trees, which had been there when the Longbottoms purchased and renamed the farm a decade ago, the Tree of Knowledge had been grown from the seeds of an apple Luna had been eating when she and Neville left Hogwarts for parts unknown, which turned out to be a village in the South Devon AONB.

One of the perks of being friends with Phil Longbottom was free access to apples from this particular tree. Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian had been munching on apples from the Tree of Knowledge practically since the time they had teeth. (Greasy Johnson and the two members of his gang, Prawn and Doyle, had to sneak into orchard and steal the apples, which they shockingly preferred to sweets and crisps.)

Brian especially loved the apples, to the point where he worried it might be sinful to eat them. He told Phil there was a story in the Muggle Bible about a serpent tempting Eve with an apple and getting her and Adam thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Phil wasn't too worried - none of the snakes at Longlove Farm had ever urged him to eat an apple from the tree. Usually, the greedy buggers just asked him where mice could be found and then slithered off to catch their dinner with a hiss of thanks.

Besides, there was never an apple, in Phil's opinion, that wasn't worth the trouble you got into for eating it. He had just set aside a particularly fine specimen for Brian when his friend came walking into the orchard, looking shattered.

"Are your parents going to let you go?" Pepper asked, worried.

Brian nodded, mutely.

"Wicked!" Phil said, punching his friend's shoulder. "Why d'ya look like your pet dog died, then?"

Brian took a deep breath. "Professor Flitwick had to call in the headmistress after my parents started screaming he was an instrument of Satan."

"What's she like?" asked Wensleydale. He was always eager to learn something new.

"Is she strict?" Pepper wanted to know. She was always eager to get into trouble.

Brian gulped and nodded. "Professor McGonagall? Strict doesn't begin to cover it. Her dad was a Presbyterian minister in Caithness."

"So what happened?" Phil asked, eyebrows raised. "Did your parents _like_ her?"

Brian shook his head, frantically. "Uh-uh. When she showed up, my dad pulled out the big guns. He got the family Bible and quoted Exodus. 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'"

Phil narrowed his eyes. His mum was a witch. "What did Professor McGonagall do?"

"She debated him on the Scriptures. For _three hours_!" Brian moaned. "Told him King James got it wrong in translation - the Hebrew word refers to necromancers, who raise the dead."

"Do they teach you how to do that at Hogwarts?" Phil inquired. That sounded dead useful, no pun intended.

"She said absolutely not. It's Dark Arts, and they only teach you how to defend against them," Brian replied.

"Did that convince your parents?" Pepper asked doubtfully.

"No, they finally agreed to let me go after Professor McGonagall showed them the spells for everything the Bible says is a miracle. We've got fishes and loaves coming out of our ears at home. Wine, too."

"That's brilliant," Phil said. "That you can go with us to school, I mean. Have an apple to celebrate?"

Brian took the fruit gratefully. Then his eyes widened comically. "Oh, I almost forgot! Professor McGonagall also said there were seven of us total from the village who would be attending Hogwarts. That's _never_ happened before, and the school's been around for, like, a thousand years. She thinks there must be a magical spring or something nearby."

"Or something," Phil agreed, casually tossing a green apple in one hand. "How 'bout them apples?" he asked.

Pepper's eyes widened. "But that means the other three are - "

"Greasy Johnson and his gang," Brian confirmed morosely.

"Oh, well," Phil said in a practical tone. "At least we outnumber them."

The four friends settled comfortably in the shade of the tree.

"So, I've been reading _Hogwarts: A History_ ," Wensleydale began.

"Swot," Pepper said, without rancor.

"What House do you think you'll be in?" the spectacled boy asked. "I think Ravenclaw would be a good fit for me."

Phil nodded. He'd had a talk with his dad about the four Hogwarts Houses, and he thought the studious Wensleydale's assessment of himself was spot on.

"I'm just happy I get to go to Hogwarts. Any house will do for me," Brian said.

"Hufflepuff, then," Phil smirked.

"I'd like to be in Gryffindor," Pepper said. "My Weasley cousins were all Gryffs. Does it go with families?" she asked Phil, their resident expert on all things magical.

"Sometimes," he said. "But sometimes you get Sorted somewhere different. Or maybe your parents were in different Houses." That was Phil's situation. His mum had been a Ravenclaw, and his father . . .

"I could get sorted into Slytherin, 'cuz I can talk to snakes," Phil offered. "Or maybe I'll be in Gryffindor, like my dad."


	9. In the Garden (Not Eden)

** June 21, 2009 - Early Afternoon **

On a hot and sunny afternoon, Hermione and Harry stood awkwardly under an apple tree in Malfoy Manor's impeccably groomed gardens. Harry had a small plate of canapés, and Hermione held a champagne flute, but their general demeanor was that of soldiers under siege rather than party guests.

Draco approached them, with a smile for Hermione. "Thank you both for coming to my mother's garden party. It means a great deal to her." In translation, he meant that the presence of the two members of the Golden Trio carried enough social cachet to burnish even Narcissa Malfoy's reputation as a hostess.

Hermione smiled back at him and Harry nodded, stiffly.

"Potter, for Merlin's sake, get a drink and relax," Draco said. "No Dark wizards are going to jump out of the bushes and curse you."

"Where's Lucius?" Harry asked warily.

"My father is hiding in his study with all of the good liquor. That's what he does whenever my mother hosts her summer solstice garden party," Draco replied, not resenting Potter's implication.

"Big bad Death Eater Lucius Malfoy is scared of little old pureblood biddies?" Harry scoffed.

"Augusta Longbottom," Hermione murmured, in a pointed reminder.

"That's different," Harry argued. "Neville's Gran took out an Auror when she was seventy-six, went on the lam, and fought Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Have you heard back from my Great-Aunt Augusta since we saw her for tea?" asked Draco.

Harry gave him a look of newfound respect, the sort of look men give to other men who voluntarily perform dangerous deeds, like scaling Kilimanjaro or wrestling crocodiles. " _You_ went to tea with Madam Longbottom?"

"On my birthday, too," Draco confirmed.

"She sent me an Owl just yesterday," Hermione replied. "Neville and Luna agreed to see me. They'll send a Portkey for next weekend."

"That doesn't leave much time - only about a month until my birthday and Voldemort's return," Harry fretted. "What a bloody awful present."

"What are you going to do with Luna's kid?" Draco asked, practically.

"I'm going to cast every ward that I know on him, to help keep him from being possessed. Just like I've already done for you and Harry and Teddy. And I'll warn Neville and Luna, of course," Hermione answered.

"Do you think that's good enough?" Harry asked.

"Honestly, no," she replied. "I'd rather that we found and destroyed the eighth Horcrux."

"Yeah, well, we tried that and it didn't work," Draco said. Suddenly, a fearful expression crossed his face. "Quick, hide me!" he begged. "It's Pansy's grandmother!"

"Too late, dearie!" crowed a dark-eyed old lady, short and plump, wearing a massive pink straw hat adorned with peonies. She pinched Draco's cheek with her talon-like fingers in greeting.

Hermione glared.

The old lady gave her an evil smile.

"Who's your handsome friend, Drakey?" she asked, eying Harry greedily.

"This is Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived," Draco smirked, more than happy to offer him up as a sacrificial lamb. "Or The Chosen One, if you prefer."

"I'd certainly choose him," the old witch licked her lips. "I'm Peony Parkinson," she introduced herself, extending her wizened hand in a royal manner for Harry to kiss.

Harry shook it instead. Quick as a viper, she snaked her free hand around and pinched his bum.

"Ow!" he yelped.

"Nice and firm," Pansy's grandmother leered. "Play a lot of Quidditch, do you?"

"Er, excuse me," Harry stammered. "Loo, er, Auror business, er . . . I have important Auror business. In the loo!" Quickly, he scuttled away, making good his escape.

Draco shook his head at Harry's retreat. "Some days, I find it hard to believe that he managed to defeat the Dark Lord. I really don't know what Voldemort was so afraid of."

"Tom Riddle? Afraid of that young whippersnapper?" Peony screeched with laughter. "Everyone knows Albus Dumbledore is the only wizard he ever feared."

Warm brown eyes met cool grey ones in a shared look of horror.

"What exactly did your uncle say, about when Voldemort is coming back?" Hermione asked, in a strangled voice.

"It was my aunt, actually, in the memory she left behind. She said the Dark Lord would rise 'on the date his greatest enemy, the only one he ever feared, came into the world.' I asked Rodolphus if that meant Potter's birthday, and he said yes," Draco related.

"But Death Eaters lie," Hermione noted.

"All the time," Draco agreed.

"Do you happen to know Professor Dumbledore's birthday?" she asked.

He gave her a look. "We didn't exactly celebrate it in the dungeons or here at home."

"I thought perhaps you burned him in effigy. That sort of thing," Hermione explained.

"Dumbledore's birthday? It's today!" cackled Peony.

"Rodolphus and Rabastan aren't here," Hermione noted in an undertone, scanning the crowd. "Should they be?"

Draco nodded and gulped. "Rodolphus at least, since he's family. My mother always tells her owl to lose his invitation, but he still never fails to show up."

"We need to get to Luna and Neville right now, to warn them," Hermione said urgently.

"I agree, angel, but there's this tiny little problem in that we've been searching for weeks and still don't know where they are!"

"Madam Parkinson, do you happen to know where Neville and Luna Longbottom live?" Hermione asked politely.

"Augusta's grandson? Not the faintest idea. Why don't you ask her? Are all Mudbloods this barmy?" the old lady replied scathingly. She stalked away, in search of fresh prey.

"You can see where Pansy inherited her charm," Draco said, in a consoling way.

Hermione shook her head. "That apple didn't fall far from the tree."

"Not _this_ tree," Draco said, patting the trunk. "We call it the Tree of Knowledge, and Pansy's thicker than a concussed troll."

Hermione scrutinized the tree. "Why do you call it that?"

"Supposedly it enhances your knowledge of magic. My mother always told me to eat an apple a day, to keep my marks up," Draco said. Watching Hermione, he could practically see the wheels turning in her brain.

"What happens if Muggles eat the apples?" she asked.

"We've never had Muggles in the gardens. Mother wouldn't stand for it."

"But what if a Muggle somehow got a hold of one of these apples and ate it? What would happen?" Hermione persisted.

"Just one? Nothing," Draco answered. "But if a Muggle ate enough, they would be able to learn magic. There's some old legend about a Muggle woman getting in trouble because one of my ancestors kept urging her to eat the apples. She only had one though, so she didn't become a witch."

"We need to get to Stoke Tadfield, in Devon," Hermione announced suddenly, eyes bright.

"Why this sudden urge to visit the West Country?" queried Draco. "Though I wouldn't be adverse to taking a mini-break with you."

"It's the village Professor McGonagall told me about," Hermione impatiently explained. "They have seven students who will be starting at Hogwarts, six of them with Muggle parents."

"Six Muggleborns? From the same village? That's unheard of! So you think the brats all ate Malfoy apples?" Draco asked, starting to connect the dots.

"Yes! Remember that apple you gave Luna after the Battle of Hogwarts? I think there might be an apple tree in Stoke Tadfield that grew from the seeds of that fruit," Hermione theorized. "And I think the seventh Hogwarts student is Luna's son."

"It can't hurt to try," Draco shrugged. "I drove down from London. With the Bentley, we can be there in a hour or so." His calculations were based on his average driving speed, and bore no relationship to the speed limit.

Hermione frowned. She was very familiar with the Bentley and Draco's driving style, being his favorite passenger, but she couldn't think of any better way to get there. They couldn't Apparate to a place where neither of them had ever been. "What about Harry? Your car only has two seats, and we need to take him with us."

"Potter? That plonker can ride in the boot."


	10. On the Road

** June 21, 2009 - Afternoon **

Four bikers were riding in a tight formation, heading northeast on the A30 from Cornwall into Devon at a steady pace. They had left the Lestrange estate outside Penzance earlier in the afternoon with every expectation of returning no later than nightfall, bringing with them the Dark Lord in his latest incarnation. It was the longest day of the year, and they had plenty of time.

Three of the four Death Eaters were astride classic black Harley-Davidson hogs, while Alecto Carrow, who just had to be different, rode an acid-green Kawasaki. She took the point position, and, as the only female biker, had been given responsibility for both navigation and refreshments. Her brother Amycus brought up the rear. Rabastan, with Salazar's rod carefully strapped into a sidecar, rode in the protected middle position, hugging the guardrail. Rodolphus flanked him on the outside.

Since billowing Death Eater robes and silver masks were impractical when riding a motorbike, they wore tinted helmets and black leather. In emerald studs on the back of their jackets the words THE FOUR HORSEMEN were picked out.

Rodolphus liked the name - indeed, he had chosen it. The four of them were, so far as Muggles, Mudbloods, and blood traitors were concerned, harbingers of the Apocalypse. They were the most loyal of the Dark Lord's followers, bringing him back to finish what he had started.

Rabastan and Amycus also liked the name. Calling themselves horsemen appealed to their traditional values. Both were suspicious of Muggle technology, with Amycus even more of a Luddite than Rabastan. It had been a struggle for Rodolphus to coax them onto Muggle machines in the first place. He finally succeeded by convincing them that motorbikes were just like horses, except they drank petrol instead of water. (He further reminded Amycus that Sirius Black had been the first to ride an enchanted Muggle motorbike, playing to the squat Death Eater's schoolboy crush.)

Alecto disliked the name. She thought it was sexist, not to mention inaccurate. However, THE THREE HORSEMEN AND A HORSEWOMAN just didn't have the same ring to it. So Rodolphus told her to suck it up and that after thirty years as a Death Eater, she should be used to misogyny by now. If Alecto wanted equality, he said, she was free to join the bloody Order of the Phoenix. She snarled and grumbled and subtly rebelled by picking out a racing motorbike fast enough to run rings around the wizards' Harley-Davidsons, but she had capitulated. They were THE FOUR HORSEMEN and that was that.

Alecto held out her arm, signaling that they should pull off into a rest area. She swung her green Kawasaki onto the off ramp, barely slowing, and the three wizards lumbered after her on their bulkier motorcycles.

After dismounting, they huddled around a picnic table, looking at a map of the West Country. Alecto distributed biscuits and passed around a flask of pumpkin juice.

"Draco didn't find the kid, did he?" Amycus asked.

Rodolphus shook his head. "No, I hoped that the Mudblood he's panting after would lead him to the boy, but he failed us yet again."

"Slimy little creep," Amycus editorialized. "I wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw him. Without my wand."

Rodolphus nodded his agreement. "My nephew is utterly untrustworthy," he opined, without irony.

Their mistrust of Draco was grounded in nothing more than their own paranoia, which some would argue was simply a sensible and well-adjusted reaction to serving as a Death Eater. Everyone really _was_ out to get them.

"Fortunately, our Lord and Bella planned for this possibility," Rodolphus continued. He handed over a wand made of yew, thirteen and half inches long, to the female Carrow. " _His_ wand will find his own flesh and blood, no matter what wards and charms have been used to hide the boy."

"Point me," Alecto muttered, holding the wand poised over the unfolded map on the table. The wand spiraled in ever tighter circles, like a planchette on a Ouija board, until it centered over the village of Stoke Tadfield.

"Only about fifty kilometers to go," she announced.

As the Carrow siblings embarked on a vicious argument over whether the A38 or back roads would be the more efficient route, Rabastan turned to his older brother, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"I can hardly wait," he said, rubbing his hands. "It'll be like old times - torturing Longbottoms into insanity. D'ya think Neville will hold out as long as old Frank?" he asked.

Rodolphus grinned evilly. "I'm more interested in whether I can make Luna scream like Alice."

"I did like visiting Luna in the Malfoy dungeons," Rabastan agreed nostalgically. "Mebbe we can share."

"Did you figure out where we're going?" Rodolphus demanded of Alecto. He now was rather eager to get there.

The witch nodded. "We'll take the next exit. Follow me."

The four of them mounted their motorbikes. With a roar of engines and a cloud of exhaust, they were off.

They were getting closer. Very close indeed.

(x) (x) (x)

There was no convenient motorway leading from Malfoy Manor's location in rural Wiltshire to the equally bucolic village of Stoke Tadfield in Devonshire. That meant that Draco was driving the Bentley along narrow, twisty country lanes, blithely oblivious to both the speed limit and how Harry was being jostled about.

"Oi, Malfoy! Slow down a bit, why don't you?" Harry called from his precarious perch on the folding convertible top.

Draco craned around to glare at him. "Put a Sticking Charm on your arse, Potter. Getting to the Longbottoms' before my uncle can resurrect the Dark Lord is a bit more important than your comfort."

"Eyes on the road, Draco," Hermione reminded him, knuckles white.

"Sorry, angel."

As the Bentley passed through a crossroads at more than quadruple the posted speed, a flashing blue light to the rear signaled that the local constabulary did not appreciate Malfoy driving his car as though it were the latest model of racing broom. The Bentley plunged down a leafy road. The blue light followed.

Draco sighed and took one hand from the wheel (much to Hermione's dismay) to make a complicated gesture over his shoulder with his wand. The flashing blue light faded into the distance as the police car rolled to a halt, much to the officers' amazement. That would only increase when they opened the hood to see what Draco had Transfigured the engine into.

"How much further is it?" Harry whinged.

"Not much further," Hermione said, directing Draco to turn right at the next crossroads. "We'll be there soon."

"Soon, and Merlin willing, we'll be there in time," Draco muttered fervently, eyes fixed on the road and foot planted on the accelerator.

They, too, were getting closer.


	11. In the Orchard

** June 21, 2009 - Late Afternoon **

Phil was in the orchard with his dad, helping to prune the apple trees with a three-quarter size pair of shears, when there was a sudden lurch in the air and on the ground. It felt like a combination of a thunderstorm and an earthquake.

Neville paled. "Someone's breaking down the wards!"

Phil's eyes widened. He knew his parents had worked together to ward the property from any uninvited witches and wizards. Anyone who could get through their wards was both powerful and unwelcome.

Neville put both hands on Phil's shoulders and spoke to him, urgently. "Son, I need you to run to the house as fast as you can. Tell your mum to Floo through to the Rookery with Gus and Alice. Then go to the Burrow down the lane. The Weasleys should be gathered for Sunday supper and there should be enough of them to keep you all safe."

Phil knew the Rookery was his mum's childhood home. Their fireplace was hooked up to it, through an emergency, one-way connection. The Rookery was empty now, since his grandfather Xenophilius had been killed in the war no Muggles seemed to know about. His grandmother had died years ago in a magical experiment, when Luna was only nine.

"What are you going to do, Dad?" Phil asked, shaking at the thought of losing either of his parents.

"I'm going to hold them off as long as I can," his dad said, his usually cheerful face grim. He patted Phil's shoulder in reassurance. "Don't worry," he added in a meaningless reassurance. "I'll be fine."

He hugged Phil, quick and hard, as another shudder rocked the wards. "Go, now! Before it's too late!"

Phil dropped the shears - never run with sharp objects - and ran like a colt for the farmhouse.

Behind him, his dad drew his wand. " _Locomotor Piertotum Malus_!" he cried, waving it in a circular motion around the orchard. "Defend your home and family!" The apple trees began to sway and swing their branches in a menacing fashion. Those trees between Phil and the house, however, leaned out of the way and drew in their roots, leaving him a clear, grassy path to the house. He ran even faster.

Phil had just reached the back door when the wards collapsed with a crack like lightning. With a thunderous roar, four motorbikes raced onto the property. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his dad  Apparate directly in front of them. Neville slashed his wand downward and the earth rose up like a rampart. Two of the bikers - one black, one green - crashed into the barrier of dirt, but two others wheeled their bikes away. Neville ran back into the orchard with those two motorbikes in pursuit, drawing them away from the farmhouse.

Gasping for breath, Phil opened the back door and tumbled into the illusory safety of his family's home.

(x) (x) (x)

His mum, Gus, and baby Alice were all in the kitchen. Luna had been slicing bread and spreading it with jam, preparing their afternoon tea.

Even though she was a witch, and preferred to put her faith in amulets and spells, being kidnapped off the Hogwarts Express at the tender age of sixteen had driven home to Luna the importance of always having a contingency plan. For that reason, she kept a foot-long bread knife in her belt, except when she was using it to prepare meals. Now, with the sound of the wards coming down, she was cowered against the butcher-block counter, eyes wide and staring into the past, clutching the knife like a lifeline.

Phil loved his mum dearly, but he was an unusually clear-eyed child when it came to her limitations. Something in her had been broken during that war his parents never talked about and no Muggles knew about. Luna had been patched back together, but she was still fragile and liable to shatter at even the lightest of blows.

For that reason, he spoke to her as gently as he knew how, picking up her cold hand in his warm and slightly dirty one. "Mum, we're going to Floo through to the Rookery. Dad said so. Can you carry the baby and I'll get Gus?"

"What about your dad?" Luna asked, staring unnervingly through him.

"He said to go on ahead, and he'll meet us at the Burrow. Something about Sunday supper," Phil lied with boyish confidence. He tugged his mum to her feet. "Let's go."

For the last two words, he concentrated hard and put a ringing note of command in his voice. Phil had discovered that people would obey him when he used that voice. It worked now. Luna walked shakily over to Alice and removed the baby from her seat. Phil grabbed three-year-old Gus by his sticky hand.

"You go first, Mum," Phil said, in that same ringing tone.

Taking a pinch of Floo powder, Luna threw it onto the cool blue flames that occupied the fireplace in the summer months. "The Rookery," she called. The flames turned green, and she stepped through, carrying Phil's baby sister.

"The Rookery," Phil echoed, imitating his mum's actions with the Floo powder as soon as the flames were blue again. They flared green, and he pushed his younger brother through. Phil did not follow.

As he had hoped, Mum had left her knife behind in all of the excitement. Phil hefted it experimentally and stuck it in his belt. He hadn't yet gone to Diagon Alley with his parents to buy a wand, but a foot-long bread knife was better than nothing.

He ran back outside, into the fray. His dad needed his help.

(x) (x) (x)

The Bentley skidded to a stop in the driveway of what a worn wooden sign announced was Longlove Farm. Draco swung the car in a tight circle, spraying gravel, so that the driver's side was angled between the orchard and a makeshift earthen wall. Then he, Hermione and Harry exited to the passenger side, using the car as a barrier.

They were none too soon. Spells began pinging off the Bentley's steel body, causing no harm except to the finish. Draco and Harry returned fire, while Hermione focused on defensive and shielding spells to improve the safety of their position.

They were more than holding their own, until Draco swore and clutched his arm.

"Oh, fuck," he said, looking at his inner forearm.

"What is it? Were you hit?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"No, it's Rodolphus. He's summoned us here."

 _The Dark Lord returns. Come now and all will be forgiven. Stay away and you will beg for death._ The uncompromising message, with its threat of unspecified but horrid penalties for no-shows, was written around Draco's Dark Mark. _That means you, Draco_ , his uncle added in personalized postscript.

"Potter, can you get any Aurors here?" Draco barked.

"No, I don't brand them with a tracking device," the Head Auror snapped. "And I can't send a Patronus with Apparition coordinates because I don't bloody well know them."

"We are so fucking dead," Draco moaned, as other Death Eaters began to Apparate in. He stopped counting when they were outnumbered three to one, but they still kept coming.

"You can go, you know," Hermione nobly offered. "Our Arrangement doesn't require you to take part in a suicide mission."

"Don't be stupid, Granger," Draco said. He raised his wand and began trying to pick off the arriving Death Eaters before they reached cover.

Harry looked at him, gobsmacked. "I'd just like to say, Malfoy," he began. He stopped and awkwardly cleared his throat. "If we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you." Harry extended his hand to Draco.

"That's right," said Draco bitterly. "Make my day." Still, he briefly shook Potter's proffered hand before the two of them, along with Hermione, resumed hexing the arriving Death Eaters.

Harry stopped, listening to something only he could hear. "The kid's a Parselmouth," he announced, jerking his head towards a dark-haired boy who had emerged from the house. "He's telling the snakes to attack the Death Eaters but leave us alone."

Draco snorted. "I appreciate the thought, but there's not much a little grass snake can do to a Dark wizard."

Hermione pointed her wand at one of the grass snakes slithering at Phil's feet. " _Engorgio_!" she cried, turning the harmless little reptile into a Death-Eater crushing monster.

"Nice use of the Engorgement Charm, angel," Draco smirked. "Did you perfect that when you were dating the Weasel King?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him but did not answer, too busy magically enlarging another snake. All around them, the pops of incoming, hostile Apparition continued.

(x) (x) (x)

As soon as he got outside the farmhouse, Phil wished he could run back in. There were colored beams of light flying every which way, exchanged between a vintage black Bentley that was looking much worse for wear and the wall of earth his dad had flung up to stop the bikers.

The lights were pretty, but also pretty clearly dangerous. Wizards in dark robes and scary silver masks were appearing out of thin air, their arrival announced by a popping sound. A few were hit by beams of light from behind the Bentley, red or green, before they could run to the shelter of the orchard or make it behind the dirt wall. They crumpled to the ground and did not get up again.

Over in the orchard, the normally pleasant apple trees looked as ominous as Mirkwood. They were lobbing apples at the people hunkered behind the dirt wall, but large swathes of the trees had been splintered or burnt by magic. A few resolute saplings had pulled up their roots and were marching to attack the wizards hiding behind the rampart of earth.

As Phil watched, the saplings halted in their tracks and the apple trees in the orchard froze. A short, broad man in a black leather jacket emerged from the orchard, levitating Phil's dad in front of him as a shield. He was unconscious and bleeding from his nose and mouth. They were followed by a tall man, also in a biker jacket, holding a black metal staff with silver snakes twined around it.

"Neville!" came an anguished cry from behind the Bentley. It made the two men in biker jackets laugh, evilly.

Phil wished he had a dog. The sort of dog which, when you meet it, reminds you that despite thousands of years of manmade evolution, every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf. He wanted a dog like that, because he could tell it to rip out the throat of the wizards who had hurt his dad and it would hasten to obey.

But Phil didn't have a dog. However, he _could_ talk to snakes. "Snakes, come out," he hissed.

Phil now wished his parents had a farm somewhere other than south Devonshire. If this were a rubber plantation in Southeast Asia, or a ranch in the Australian outback, his call would have brought forth some interesting and venomous reptiles. Even in rural Appalachia, he could have rustled up a nest of copperheads and maybe even an Eastern timber rattler or two. As it was, he got several grass snakes slithering from their holes.

Phil sighed. It was better than nothing. "Anyone who is wearing dark robes and a mask, or a leather jacket, I want you to attack them," he ordered the snakes at his feet. "Leave the people behind the car alone."

"How are we sssupposssed to attack them?" asked a small green snake. It was a reasonable inquiry.

"Twine around their feet to trip them, or bite their ankles," Phil suggested.

Suddenly, an icy blue light engulfed the skeptical little snake. It came from behind the Bentley. Phil was aghast at the treachery, until the little snake began to swell and grow. When it was the size of a large boa constrictor, but otherwise unharmed, the light moved onto the next snake, doing the same.

"Wicked," Phil breathed.

The not-so-little snake flicked its forked tongue in agreement. "Ssshall we go forth and crussh your enemies, Massster?"

"Yesss," Phil replied.

"Sssorry I'm late," hissed a snake from behind them. Phil turned to see an adder, a very shy snake and the only venomous reptile indigenous to England.

He smiled at it. "It's alright. You're here now. And I've got a ssspecial job for you . . . "

(x) (x) (x)

Rodolphus grinned in sick pleasure at the hissing sound of Parseltongue. The boy was indeed a fitting vessel for the last fragment of the Dark Lord's soul.

"Come here, boy," he ordered. "You truly are my Master's son."

He needed the whelp to get close enough to stave in the boy's head with Salazar's rod. Once he was unconscious or dying or both, Voldemort would have a clear path to move from the Horcrux and take over the child's body.

The boy stubbornly shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodolphus saw the curly-haired Mudblood frantically trying to get the boy's attention, to bring him behind the shelter of the Bentley. He narrowed his eyes and sent a nasty hex in her direction, but his nephew yanked her out of harm's way.

"Fine, we'll do it the hard way," Rodolphus sighed. " _Ennervate_ ," he said, pointing his wand at Neville. " _Crucio_!"

Neville screamed and howled in pain, writhing in the dust at the Lestrange brothers' feet. They had already tortured him in the orchard, and he was getting hoarse, but he hadn't yet lost his voice.

"Ah, music to my ears," Rabastan signed in contentment. "He sounds just like his father."

The boy was deathly white and looked like he was about to faint. Rodolphus hoped he would - that would make his job so much easier. "How long did Frank Longbottom last under my wand before he lost his mind entirely?" he queried.

"Give it a few more minutes and Neville will be joining his parents on the Janus Thickey ward," advised Rabastan. "Unless you just want to kill him now."

"It would cut down on the medical bills," Rodolphus agreed. He let up on the Cruciatus Curse and aimed his wand at Longbottom's huddled, panting form on the ground. " _Avada Ked_ -"

"No!" the boy screamed, dashing forward with a bread knife, of all the silly things, clutched in his hand.

Rodolphus lined up and swung Salazar's rod like a bat, straight at the boy's dark-haired head.

The boy held up the bread knife in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. Except, before Rodolphus's astonished eyes, the knife lengthened and broadened into a pure silver sword with rubies set into the hilt. Godric Gryffindor's sword, imbued with basilisk venom, sheered through the eighth Horcrux as though Salazar's rod were made of butter rather than metal. With a shriek like a dying banshee, the last piece of Voldemort's soul disappeared in a whirlwind of coal-black dust.

For a moment, Rodolphus stood still, stunned at how his plans had been upset. Then he lunged for the boy, intent on murdering the brat with his bare hands. He never made it. One of the enlarged grass snakes rammed into the back of his knees, knocking him to the ground. The adder nipped in and struck, sinking his fangs into the Death Eater's carotid artery, leaving nothing to chance.

Phil stumbled over to Neville. "Dad! Dad? Are you alright?" he asked in a panic.

Neville weakly propped himself into a seated position, against the trunk of one of his apple trees. "I'll be alright," he reassured his son, hugging him tight. "I'm so proud of you, Phil."

"Dad, what did that man mean, saying I was his master's son?"

"It was nothing but rubbish," Neville reassured him. "You're my son in every way that matters."

(x) (x) (x)

"Oh, Godric!" Hermione breathed, watching events unfold from her vantage point behind the Bentley.

"His sword, at least," Draco agreed. "Guess that confirms you did the right thing, giving it to Longbottom after the battle at Hogwarts."

"So does this mean things will go back to how they were before?" Hermione asked, brown eyes wide.

"Our Arrangement stands," Draco confirmed.

All around them, Death Eaters were Disapparating with a sound like popcorn, having lost all appetite for a fight. Potter was watching them go with intent green eyes. Draco had no doubt that the entire Auror Department would be reviewing their Head Auror's memories in a Pensieve first thing Monday morning and issuing arrest warrants. He was only grateful that he had not seen his father's white-blond hair peeking beneath the masks of any Death Eaters in attendance. Either Lucius had been sensible enough to stay away altogether, or he had used one of Narcissa's hairnets as a makeshift disguise.

"Let me tempt you to some dinner at the Ritz," Draco offered.

Hermione smiled at him, beautiful despite the soot on her face, and shot him a provocative look from under her eyelashes. "What do you say to skipping dinner and going straight to dessert?"

Draco smirked. "And here I thought I was the tempting one."


	12. Back at the Ritz

** June 21, 2009 - Late Evening **

Upon arriving at the Ritz, they went straight up to Draco's room (rooms, to be precise). He had not been so presumptuous of Hermione's favors as to book in advance, but a sumptuous suite overlooking Green Park mysteriously was available upon his request. For Malfoys, reservations were things that happened to other people.

Eventually, after a few hours, Hermione did get her dessert. Battling Death Eaters, followed by shagging like Kneazles in heat, had both of them feeling a bit peckish. Draco ordered champagne, oysters, and her favorite apricot soufflé from room service.

They left the suite's bedroom, with no little reluctance, to partake in their snack. They sat on the settee in the main room of the suite, Draco lounging in one of the robes thoughtfully provided by the Ritz. Hermione snuggled up against him, wearing nothing but his dress shirt, which came fetchingly to mid-thigh. Between that and the three top buttons she had left undone, he couldn't decide where to look.

Draco poured out two flutes of champagne and handed one to Hermione.

"To The Arrangement," he toasted.

"To us," she added. "To the beginning of something even more than a beautiful friendship."

They clinked glasses with a shared smile.

The oysters went quickly, followed by the soufflé. The started to eat the latter quite properly with their forks, but wound up first feeding it to each other by hand, and then licking it off each other.

"Bed?" he inquired, looking up from her breasts. His dress shirt was now entirely unbuttoned, baring her body to his appreciative gaze.

Hermione shook her head. "The floor will do." She slid down to the carpet and leaned back on her elbows in clear invitation.

"You'll get rug burn," Draco warned. Even as he spoke, he was untying the sash of the hotel robe.

"I don't care," she declared, licking her lips at his naked body and prominent erection.

He smirked and lowered himself atop her body, propped up on his arms so Hermione would not have to take the full weight of his body. "I suppose a bit of discomfort is worth it, in exchange for one of best shags of your life. I intend to make this even more memorable than our night in Bangkok."

"You're incorrigible, Malfoy," she laughed, shifting deliciously underneath him and parting her thighs. She ran her hands along the smooth expanse of his back to draw him closer. 

"And you can be insufferable, Granger," he rejoined, nipping her neck and lining himself up to thrust into her.

He pushed into her body, relishing the feeling of her tight walls stretching to accommodate him and the delicious sounds she was emitting. "Oh, Draco," she moaned breathily into his ear when their bodies were fully joined.

He looked down at her. Hermione's eyes were dark with lust and her lips were reddened from his kisses. She looked more devilish than angelic, but he loved it.

Draco smirked and murmured softly in her ear. "Together, though . . . we're ineffable."


End file.
